I, Cassandra

26 | AMADI EZENWA

He looks around, edgy. His agitation starts to make me edgy. I eye him, wary. He's young, maybe in his early twenties, blond, fair-skinned, blue-eyed. Square jaw, just a hint of stubble. I decide to give him time. He's just a kid, after all. Maybe I intimidate him.

He stands to attention and salutes me, abrupt. 'Sir,' he says, low, 'Sergeant Gunnarsson, I've been put on door duty while the investigation takes place. I'm supposed to be undercover.' His eyes dart from side to side, but there is no one around, inside or out. He drops his salute, his hand joins the other one clenching his cap. His knuckles whiten.

A finger of fear touches the base of my spine, chilling me despite the coolness of the elegant marble lobby. 'What investigation?' I ask, quiet, Adiana's silence suddenly feels thunderous, oppressive.

'I—,' he bites his lower lip. The cap twists in his grip, 'They said you might come.'

'Who, they?' I demand, sharp, losing patience. 'Spit it out, Gunnarsson. What's going on?'

He flinches. Tears glisten in his eyes. 'She's not here,' he whispers. 'I'm so sorry, sir.'

'That's fine, son,' I say, softening my tone. I squeeze his shoulder, seeking to reassure him. 'Just tell me where she went.'

'Sir?' he asks. Confusion bleeds from him.

I tilt my head at the door. 'Did she say where she was going?' I offer, trying to help him along. Obviously not the sharpest tool in the box.

He gives me a look that makes me think of a hunted animal caught in the crosshairs. He licks his lips and blinks, rapid. 'She's gone, sir.' His words tear through me, blades of fire and ice. 'She's not coming back.' He nods at me, once, and lifts his eyebrows, meaningful, as though I'm the dense one. 'Ever.'

Rage cuts through my shock. My fist ploughs into his face. He staggers away with a cry, his mouth bloody. Without saying anything, I punch the button for the elevator. At her door, I key in the code.

Inside, everything is still, silent, a crypt. I wander around, numb, her bouquet hanging, pointless, in my grip. Little folded pieces of yellow cardboard dot the apartment, left by the investigators at points of interest: an open book on the table; beside a photograph of her and her father; on top of her tablet. In her bedroom, the bed is unmade, one of the pillows lies in a crumpled heap on the floor. The other, still on the bed, sports black smears across the cover's pristine white. I lean closer. Mascara stains. She cried. A lot.

On the bedside table, an open, empty bottle of Lagavulin. No glass. I open the dresser drawer. A bottle of Fentanyl, dated three days ago. One tablet remains. I lift the mascara-stained pillow, sending the little yellow card perched on top fluttering to the floor. Underneath, her phone. I scoff. Some investigation. I pick up the phone. The panel lights up to a screenshot of me and her at the botanical gardens, smiling and in love, taken ten years ago by one of the botanists. I trace my finger over her smile, my heart aching.

I open her call history. Her last call was made two days ago at eleven fourteen in the morning. I stare at it, my chest constricting. Her last call was to me. The call I didn't answer. Without thinking, I open her text messages. Her last one is a draft. Also to me. Written at eleven thirteen, one minute before she called me. My heart tight, I open it.

I can't live without us. Forgive me, my love.

I sink down onto the edge of the bed and look at the wilting bouquet. I throw it against the wall. The roses shudder in silent agony, their petals tumble free, coating the hardwood floor, brilliant red, drops of blood.

I reach into her drawer, take the last pill and lie down on her bed, waiting for the black-dark pain to ease. It doesn't. I pull her pillow into my arms and will myself to grieve, for her, for us, for being forced to live in a world that made her choose to die because she wasn't allowed to love.

An hour later, Akron, of all people, walks into Adiana's bedroom. He looks at me, expressionless, leaves and comes back a few minutes later with two glasses of whisky. I pull myself up against the headboard, take the glass and drink.

Akron sits on the edge of the bed, and gazes into his glass. He sips, quiet, lost in his own thoughts. He doesn't say anything. Just drinks with me.

When I'm finished I push the glass onto the bedside table beside the bottle. I run my fingers down its side, thinking of her hand on it, seeking a remnant of her to carry with me. But there's nothing. She's gone. All I have are my memories, tarnished by the blood of thousands.

'I'm done with desk jobs.' I say, bitterness remaking me, moulding me into someone else, someone I don't recognise. 'I need a change.'

Akron meets my eyes. He nods. 'Delta Force would be honoured to have you,' he says. He gets up, salutes me, and leaves. I hear the clink of his empty glass against the kitchen's marble counter top, the quiet click of the front door as it closes.

I get up and follow him out. There's nothing left for me here. I take one last look around her apartment, the scant memories we shared ebb away. I close her door, walk away, and don't look back.